


Remember Me

by D34THR4C3R



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Amnesia, De-programming, Eventual Harry Hart | Galahad/Gary "Eggsy" Unwin, Fluff and Angst, Harry Hart Lives, Hurt Harry Hart, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Past Brainwashing, Past Torture, Slow Build, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-09
Updated: 2015-09-18
Packaged: 2018-04-18 22:07:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4722131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/D34THR4C3R/pseuds/D34THR4C3R
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry survived the church but was taken by another organization who uses his amnesia to brainwash him into being their weapon. One day they give him a target to kill, a target with a very familiar smile.  Unfortunately for them, the new target recognizes Harry and steals him back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Agent_Galahart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Agent_Galahart/gifts).



They've come to the cage dressed in green fatigues, assault rifles raised, aimed, as usual, at his head. "Stand up," they command, and though they never gave him a name, they must mean him. He's always alone. It's just them and him in those trips outside the cage and then when they're done it's just him in the cage.

He stands and shoots his cuffs. It's a habit he's had since before he could remember. He’s always had this suit; it’s his only armour. Next, push the Windsor knot of his tie up to his collar. Smooth his fingertips down the silk length of his old tie. Ignore the ridiculous urge to fix his hair. He hasn't seen a mirror in years. Or so he assumes--his memories only go back two or three years, and they're mostly of the cage and of dark, of screaming and silence, of violence earned and self-made.

Those older memories are like watching someone else. Someone who would shout and shake the cage. And then comes the hard expanse of unending time spent in black silence. When his words were met with muted fury and he was locked in a small box and his world was devoid of noise or colour or light. He would hold his breath to calm his heart and pray they hadn’t buried him alive. 

Things are different now because he is different now. He has some room to move, to stand up or lay down, and they allow him light after that horrifying blindness. He can sleep and know he will wake again. And amidst it all, he has had fuzzy dreams of pinned butterflies and bolts of cloth and a bright, cocky smile. A mystery to ponder, to keep separate from the hyper-awareness of the buzzing terror around him: Whose smile is this? Not his, surely.

He does know the colour of his own hair, as it’s long enough to fall in his face. They’ve cut it once, last year--one of his keepers came in and grabbed the hair at the base of his neck and then they took a knife and hacked it away. He’s grateful they didn’t cut his throat. He guesses at his own eye color; brown, but that’s based on a gut feeling and no empirical evidence. It’s the sort of thing one should know about oneself, but he, alas, does not. It doesn’t really matter. He does, sometimes, when he’s alone in the cage, think about a certain pair of eyes, but they are between green and blue and they have a spark in them that he’s certain his eyes don’t have anymore. He wonders why he thinks of them. They’re one of the very few things that are clear in his mind. And they’re beautiful.

These strange visions he hoards in secret. His keepers don’t want him to have things like that--he must keep his mind clear of everything but obedience and killing. It must be the drugs. He knows they put something in his food. He asked them once what the bitter taste could be, thinking it could perhaps be medicine, but they told him to shut up and then they beat his face. It could be worse. He has a murky memory from the time when his memories begin of asking impertinent questions, and for answers he got broken hands. Vices clamped just below the knuckles, the long, thin bones bending before a sudden snap. They made sure not to damage the trigger finger of his dominant hand. God only knows what would happen if he couldn't do the things they want him to do.

Whatever happens, he knows this much: they'll point and he will kill with a singular focus that feels second nature and then they will point guns at his head and take him home to the cage. If his blood is still singing with violence when the work is done, he'll keep fighting, immune to pain. He’ll blindly rage against his keepers until they come with the collar and chains, pile on him and force him to kneel, immovably locked into place. And then his head is submerged in water and ice until the urge to breath becomes a deathwish. But just before that panicked moment, his mind breaks through to the back where his secrets are kept and he hears voices that aren't his, that aren't theirs. Phantoms of the unremembered past, saying kind things. It makes him feel quite sick. And then his keepers lift his head from the water and tell him to be grateful. He obeys.

Today he’s in his cage and it’s not so cold and he slept enough and he knows not to speak and not to think and he’s grateful they will use him. He only ever has to do what he’s best at. He will kill and as a reward he will see the sun. All he has to do is obey. "Hands up," they bark. He puts his hands up.

"Turn around," they shout. They don't need to, he's not far away. He turns around. They put on the manacles. That means transport. A long drive, or an airplane.

And to a plane they lead him and they strap him into a seat even though he's being docile, obedient. Like he has been for at least a year. At least he has been since that time they hit him so hard he was half deaf for a month. While he was dazed and bleeding they discussed his future worth. In that moment he was very nearly worthless, so they said: maybe we should cut him up and send him home. He didn't care if they cut him into pieces, but he suddenly and urgently wanted to know where home was. Thinking of the word gave him a headache and he could see faint pictures behind his eyes--breakfast with someone special. Trying to remember, he felt a stabbing in his chest. Not like knives, or the hot path of bullets. A feeling. Regret, perhaps?

On the plane, in the air, they tell him what he is allowed to know. This is a test. Kill the enemy and he can leave the cage. Fail and...well. It would be uncouth to elaborate, but either way he won't have to worry about the cage again.

He doesn't worry about it anyway. It's home, isn't it? He doesn't know any differently.

He tells them he understands and they believe him. He doesn't give them a reason not to; hasn't since the pry bar went in between the eleventh and twelfth rib.

The last little bit--why do they always do this? They affix a mask to his face, locked in the back. If he wants it off, he must come back to them. It's unpleasant and moist where his breath curls back between the plastic and his face. It rubs a tender spot on the bridge of his nose and it's hard to see out of the dark lenses of the eyes, even though they correct his vision. He needs glasses, he's been told. It's a flaw, one of many, but they'll overlook them if he performs well.

Which is what he intends to do right now.

They land on a dirt airstrip and unchain him. He's released onto a field, half green, half brown, wildflowers and untended grass. They yell over the sound of engines to look--there, in the distance, human figures coming towards them. They give the command to kill.

He begins to run, charging his target. The familiar ache of muscles put to proper use and the sting of wounds trying to pull open, the distant notion that his body has always been happy to be this strained. He's going to enjoy it until they come to collect him, going to move freely and with joyful purpose until they shock him into paralysis and lock him back into his cage.

So he goes forward, eyes trained ahead--two figures, sharply dressed in tailored suits (clearly cut to accommodate the movements of murderous acts), and closer still these figures appear to be young--a youthful man and woman, and her face is serious and his face, my God, why is this boy smiling? Cocky and self-assured and bright and terrible.

He nearly breaks his stride. The urge to stare at this young man's face comes on like the first lash of a whip. But he doesn't stop. These young creatures fall upon him like a tidal wave and the real fighting begins.

"Hold him back!" The girl shouts and she dodges sharply to her right, goes around him and she must be heading to the plane, to his keepers. He wants to follow her, to stop her dead as he is supposed to do, but the smiling boy grabs him, bends in a strange way and nearly flips him onto his back.

He manages to stay on his feet and throw a strike into the boy's solar plexus. But it doesn't stop the boy as it should; this bright creature dodges as if he knew it was coming. 

They fight close. They could grab each other round the throat if the timing was right, but it never is. Blow after blow is blocked, back and forth, as if they have both practiced these motions. It feels like recognition; it feels like dancing. And he can see a dream in this boy’s face, in his eyes--shards of blue and green.

"Nice face," the boys laughs, "were you expecting Batman?"

He has no idea what that means, but a spark of annoyance flares within him. He tucks these new pictures of beautiful eyes into dark, safe corners of his tattered memory and concentrates on destroying this flippant creature.

"Sorry, mate, you just get me!" The boy swings and ducks but is matched move for move.

He nearly sighs in exasperation--these attempts at distraction are infuriatingly childish. A bit too funny in a serious situation. Does this boy not understand that one of them will die today? But it feels as though this may just be the young man's most dangerous personality flaw. It's very nearly charming.

Left hand strike, the young man's fist glancing his ear. He growls but the boy probably can't hear it muffled through this infernal mask. His throat tickles from disuse but he can't help but say something as he parries away from the boy kicking at his head.

"A little less sass and we could finish this." He doesn't recognize his own voice but it has been a long time since he's heard it.

"Sorry, but like I said," the boy grins and takes a hit to the shoulder, "you just get me!"

In unison like mirror images, he and the boy throw two armed strikes and end up in a sick parody of an embrace. He doesn't have to shout to be heard, his mouth is scant inches from the boy's face, so in a voice surprisingly smooth he says: "Then I will have you."

He doesn't even know what he means by that, but the effect on the young man is startling.

The smile drops away; the boy's face looks more like a man, in a way that makes him nearly regret that he said anything. He hears the boy whisper: "Harry?" And what a strange question that is. What could the answer be?

The boy frowns and with a furious strength he pushes him away. He stumbles backward, thoughts new and unwanted interrupting the thoughtless purity of his movements.

He does not have the luxury of seeing the heart-twisting smile of someone he will kill with his bare hands minutes from now. And if he's the one to die, does he want to end this waking dream of a stranger's strange presence in his worthless and single-minded life?

It's just distraction after all--the young man has pressed a finger to his ear and is shouting at keepers through a comm. "It's Harry!"

Whatever the meaning in that code, it won't matter. He shakes the thoughts from his head, takes a steadying breath, and rushes headlong into the boy.

He hears: "Yes, I'm abso-fucking-lutely sure," in a voice clear and convincing. And as his shoulders twist in a deadly strike aimed at the boy's heart, the boy holds up his right hand in a fist, a signet ring shining there, and brings it down just as they collide.

The very familiar tearing sensation of fifty-thousand volts and then the same old welcoming darkness. No sense of the mission, failed. No worry or regret.

Just one last thought--will I remember him, when I wake in my cage?


	2. Chapter 2

When he wakes he knows he is not in the cage. No, not the old cage, but a new one, bright and white and without bars. He doesn't recognize this room but he knows what it is. Sometimes before a mission or after a punishment they would take him to a room like this, for testing and repair. But this place is also different than what he knows--cleaner, well lit, and devoid of the sounds of scrapping and dripping and the gruff voices of his keepers berating him for being damaged.

He's on a bed much softer than the cot in the old cage but his wrists are strapped to rails lining the bed. A wash of deja vu--the soft blips of machines and the angle of the pillows beneath his head, behind his back. He's sitting up a bit. The lights are blinding but he blinks away the ghosts behind his eyelids and tries to take in every detail. He needs to make a plan. Where is he, and how will he escape?

Escape. The idea startles him so bad it hurts. No. If he tries to escape, they will bring the blades and barbed wire. A machine to his left picks up the pace of its rhythmic song and he knows someone can hear his heart. He breathes deep, closes his eyes and concentrates, and the machine stops its staccato panic.

But it's too late--a door opens and shuts with a soft click and he can feel a presence loom over him. He opens his eyes.

That funny boy is here and he isn't smiling. That's not good.

"Harry," the funny boy says. He says it like a broken statement, not a threat pointed at his captive. How odd.

He watches the boy, stays impassive, waits for an explanation, though he doesn't think he deserves one. He has to stay quiet anyway. He hasn't earned the right to speak.

"Are you alright?" The boy's face scrunches up like he's looking at a dirty thing. Obviously the boy won't believe any answer he gives him.

He nods slowly. Of course he is just fine. The boy hasn't done anything to him yet. He'll stop being fine when the cutting or electricity or ice water and chains begin. But he'll get through it.

"Sorry, mate, but I don't believe you." The boy puts his hand on the rail, dangerously close to his captive's forearm. "Where the hell have you been?"

Without meaning to, he answers sincerely: "In the dark."

Now the boy is stunned; it makes him look even younger. How silly to think this boy caught him.

If he is going to tell the truth he might as well explain everything to the lad. "In the cage."

There. That's pretty much all of it. In the dark, in the cage. For as long as he can remember.

His throat is beginning to itch. Talking isn't easy, hasn't been for a long time. Must be from the silence and the screaming. He feels compelled to keep going; there's something about this boy that makes him want to make the boy understand. But he's run out of things to say; he's not sure how to continue. At best he can offer a partial list of everyone his keepers have had him kill. A list of nameless faces, ending just before this boy. This boy is the first on the list of people he hasn't managed to murder. The machine that sings his heartsong quickens. That's the only indication that either of them has that he is afraid of his failure.

They pause, a heavy, wordless moment, before the boy clears his throat and tries on a weak smile. The boy is trying to be funny, he must be, when he asks: "Do you remember me?"

He nods. "I fought you on the field."

"Yea, but, before that?" The boy is still smiling but those blue-green eyes are piercing.

He shakes his head no, slightly side to side. His neck hurts. How hard did this boy hit him, or was the pain from before that?

The boy takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "You don't know my name?"

Why would he? This is ridiculous. He frowns and makes it clear to this young idiot: "Of course not."

The boy stops smiling and his eyes are suddenly shiny, wet. Very pretty. "My name's Eggsy." It almost sounds like a question, like a prompt for his captive to add something.

He opens his mouth, about to return a polite greeting, but he can't. His mouth clicks shut.

"Do you..." Eggsy gestures vaguely, "do you have a name?"

Despite the ache, he shakes his head no. They don't let him have one. He doesn't like this game. If they're going to play, then he's done with talking for today, thank you.

"Your name is Harry Hart." Eggsy's voice is firm. This is a thing that his captive is not allowed to forget.

His name is Harry Hart. That's what Eggsy wants.

Harry Hart nods and confirms: "I understand."

Eggsy looks wary and sad like he is completely let down by this answer.

He wants Eggsy to know he is obedient. He says, clear and confident: "My name is Harry Hart."

Eggsy pats Harry Hart's arm, just above the restraining cuff. "Yes, good, Harry."

Harry smiles. This is much better than the old cage. Eggsy's rules are very easy. Harry hopes it stays that way. The pain of the years is catching up to him and he desperately wants the chance to earn a reprieve. Just a few more days before Eggsy begins to cut him, that would be nice.

"You rest now." Eggsy's eyes slide to the machinery around them and he fiddles with a hanging bag, with a thin hose that ends in a needle in Harry's inner elbow.

The veins of Harry's arm feel warm and then his eyelids feel heavy. He tries to nod but isn't sure Eggsy sees it before Harry is asleep.

It's the same old dreams of cloth and butterflies but the cocky smile has a funny face. Eggsy brightens up the dream the way he is going to brighten Harry's waking life. So Harry hopes, though he knows how dangerous it is to do so.


	3. Chapter 3

The second time he wakes and he's not in the cage, he's overcome with a feeling of dread. He doesn't know how it's happening, but this boy, this _Eggsy_ , is getting into his head. His keepers, mind that, his _old_ keepers, they got into his head too, and they pulled everything out and threw it all away. God only knows what someone as silly as Eggsy will do.

And it seems as though Eggsy is trying to put things in. Harry Hart? What does that mean? If that's what Eggsy is making him into, he can be Harry Hart. He can be anything. He's starting from scratch now, anyway. He doubts his old keepers will come for him, not after failing so spectacularly.

Unless they see this as an escape, in which case they will come back to make good on their promise to kill him for even thinking about getting away from them. He hopes he is outside when it happens. Under the sun, warm, with fresh air. Not in cages. Not here. But where he dies is not his decision to make.

Eggsy is a funny boy. He might think of an even better, sillier place than just being outdoors. Maybe in a spaceship. Dying in space--that would be a laugh!

Spaceships. He knows what those are. It's always shocking when he knows something he didn't know he knew. The tangle they've made of his memories unwinds in the strangest of ways. He can tie his shoes without a thought and make a headshot from a great distance without having ever been taught. Or that's how it seems to him; no teachers, no schools. Just thoughtless instinct and pointed purpose.

But ideas are tricky. He doesn't have a name, but that can't have always been true. He must have an age, but he's never had a birthday. His eyes may or may not be brown and he can tie Windsor and half-Windsor knots without looking in a mirror.

Ideas give him a headache, particularly nasty behind his right eye. Best not to dig too deep. He sighs and concentrates on the here and now instead.

He's still strapped to a hospital bed. He's not wearing his suit, which upsets him more than it should. He's had that suit the whole time he... his old keepers never bothered to match him to their uniforms. Others things didn't match, besides the way he was treated--everyone an equal save for him. (They are people and he is a weapon. Weapons are to be used and then put away. People... he doesn't remember what people do.)

They have fatigues and he has a suit and an accent he can't place, but he doesn't sound like them. He sounds more like Eggsy than he does his old keepers. But still, he and Eggsy don't sound the quite same, either. 

They never bothered to change the way he speaks because it doesn't matter. They taught him to be silent. They gagged him, made his jaw ache, made him insane from thirst. Too much of that and the threat to cut his tongue out, cutting a line down the middle of his tongue to prove their seriousness. The taste of his blood, so good after being so parched.

Enough. Stop that. It isn't helping. It's making the headache worse.

"My name is Harry Hart," he says to the machines in the room. Say it while he can. Remember it.

A catalogue of the condition of Harry Hart: he is stuck in bed. His neck still hurts, a combination of a likely bone bruise and a benign crick from the way he's been sleeping. There are other aches, but nothing bites like a cut or bullet. No stinging burns. He's been tied up, but only to keep him in place. His hands rest comfortably at his sides. It's strange. His old keepers would string him, his hands behind his back and then wrenched up, tied to the top of the cage, gravity pulling him down. First his sockets would twist and burn and then the pressure across his chest makes it hard to breathe, almost impossible to scream... No. _I can breathe._ He reminds himself by taking in a deep lungful. It feels good, though there's the heavy pinch of broken ribs still healing. He's used to it. More annoying is the new sensation down below.

He has to use the bathroom. Should he call out for Eggsy? No, he shouldn't make a sound. He can wait. It won't be the first time he's had to hold it. And it won't be the first time if he can't hold it forever... He's thankful there is no catheter. The last one was... necessary but unpleasant. It went in when he went in the box... Nevermind.

It doesn't matter because Eggsy comes into the room, pushing a cart and pulling a small dog on a lead. "Morning, Harry!"

If it really is morning, he's been here through a whole night. He spent the night in a bed. What will he owe Eggsy for that privilege?

He has seen carts like that pushed his way before. And Eggsy will lift that silver lid and very special instruments will be there. And the cutting will finally begin. Eggsy doesn't seem the sort to go for burning.

Eggsy mumbles an apology when he bumps the cart into the bed. The funny boy makes an excuse about bad steering and then, perhaps to mess with Harry's mind, Eggsy lifts the dog off the ground and holds it up to Harry's face. "Does he ring any bells?"

The dog has a rumpled face and a body like a blimp. It doesn't look smart enough to ring a bell, so Harry shakes his head. No. This animal obviously doesn't ring bells or do any other sort of trick.

Eggsy deflates a little and puts the dog back on the floor, out of Harry's sight. "JB's feelings might be hurt."

He doesn't want to know who JB is or what feelings have to do with anything. He just wants to go to the bathroom but he isn't sure how to broach the subject. Maybe this is the point and there's a catheter on the cart. Maybe there's something even more silly and awful.

Is this the sort of thing Eggsy would laugh at? He laughed at Harry's mask when they met. Harry hates that mask. 

But he'll know soon enough because Eggsy moves the cart aside the bed. Eggsy lifts the lids and this... this is not what Harry was expecting. This is _food_. More than he's seen in years and different besides. Not MREs and rations with a shelf life of a decade, this is fresh, steaming hot, and identifiable.

"Full English!" Eggsy says with a flourish, like he made the whole thing appear out of thin air.

It's a little, tiny bit funny so Harry lets out a noise that maybe, might resemble a chuckle.

Eggsy beams. Harry likes that. It's stupid and dangerous to like something as stupid and silly as Eggsy's smile, but no one knows he does. It's a secret Harry can keep safe.

And stranger still, Eggsy begins to unstrap his hands. This is a test. Harry can't see the rest of the cart--Eggsy probably has a stun gun or a whip hidden in there, waiting for Harry to take advantage of his freedoms. Eggsy won't need them. Harry knows better. He keeps his arms against the bed, even when Eggsy is done opening the straps.

"You can move around if you need to, but stay in bed, alright? You're on the mend." Eggsy gives him easy instructions, it would seem. But, stay in bed? How will he get to the bathroom? Eggsy hands him a plastic spork. Of course Harry wouldn't be given anything sharp. "Eat up, Harry!"

Cautiously, Harry raises his hand and takes the spork, his fingers brushing Eggsy's knuckles by accident. Eggsy's ears turn pink. He really is such a funny boy.

Harry dips the spork into a slop of beans and takes a bite. It's... not what he's used to. He honestly can't say if he likes it or not. It's like that bite after bite, until he's tried a bit of everything and Eggsy is grinning like a proud fool (though Harry doubts Eggsy actually made any of this) and Harry's stomach begins to turn. The food he is used to is dense, dehydrated. This is heavy and... wet.

There's a mug on the tray and Harry takes it gratefully, ready to wash down the new tastes. Eggsy pipes up: "It's just how you like it--sugar with a splash of tea!"

Just as Harry is lifting the mug to his lips and thinking _how would he know what I like?_ he takes a sip and realizes Eggsy isn't lying. This funny boy has given him a mug of hot sweetness. And Harry loves it. It has a taste that reaches into the secret void of his mind and tugs at some solid thing... Recognition? His old keepers never gave him hot drinks, never gave him anything but water with electrolyte pills. Never anything sweet.

Eggsy and Harry, they must be looking at each other with wonder. Or so Harry assumes--he doesn't know if any delight is showing on his face (it wouldn't be good to ever give your emotions away, because you aren't allowed to have them, Harry) but Eggsy looks wide-eyed watching Harry drink sugar and tea.

Harry takes quite a long pull before he sets the mug down and licks his lips. He's going to savor this and remember it. He tucks away the joy back where he keeps Eggsy's smile.

And he nearly jumps out of his skin when Eggsy takes a linen napkin from the tray and dabs at Harry's chin. "You... er, you spilled a bit. Guess you still really like it sweet, huh?"

Now Harry is wide-eyed. He has nothing to say to that, to having his face touched. He goes completely, obediently still.

"Right. Sorry." Eggsy looks away from Harry and fiddles with the cart. He pulls a sausage off and drops it on the floor. "Come on, JB," he says to the dog, "let's give Harry some space." He wheels the cart back toward the door he came in from. Over his shoulder, he gestures towards a door near the bed. "Washroom's just there. Why don't you clean up and I'll get Merlin." He smiles weakly. It's not an expression that Harry knows how to interpret. "I know you like that old fashioned stuff, but they only let me get you one of those electric things... yea." Eggsy shuffles his feet. "But I got the toothpaste you like..." He gives Harry a long, searching look. 

Harry is at a loss for words. He just waits for Eggsy to... do something. Command something.

Instead Eggsy just nods and leaves the room, trailed by a fat dog with a half a sausage. It's... comical. Appropriate. Something else. That sense of deja vu...

Harry waits a few minutes, to make sure Eggsy isn't coming back, isn't going to jump at him for getting out of bed. But finally he gets up and tries the nearest door. He pushes the handle slowly, wary of tests.

It's just a clinical wash room, white walled, with a toilet, sink, and shower stall. Two towels on a rack. There's a toiletry kit on a ledge over the sink and a mirror that Harry wants to avoid at all costs. He grabs the kit without looking at himself and looks inside. There's an electric razor, like what his old keepers would use on him. And a toothbrush and a silver and red tube of toothpaste. A comb. There's a bar of soap on the sink and, turning around, he sees little bottles in the shower stall--soap and shampoo.

The autonomy of washing himself makes him feel queasy. This isn't the hose. Well, he won't use the hot water. He's good. He knows he doesn't get to be warm.

He strips mechanically, folding the hospital gown and setting it aside. Eggsy said clean up, so he will. He turns on the shower and gets to it. A thorough scrub down (God, he probably hasn't been this clean in ages) and then it's to the sink to brush and shave. He does the best he can without looking into the mirror even once.

He's terrified of what he might see.

As he finishes, drying his face, he hears a voice through the door: "Harry! Come out!"

That isn't Eggsy. But Harry quickly dresses and obeys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no beta so this is really self-indulgent. Sorry!


End file.
